


Scotch and Sticky Notes

by octopieces



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, blowjob, drunken sexy shenanigans, exchange, johnlockchallenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopieces/pseuds/octopieces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic for sapiosexy over on Tumblr for the Valentine's Day Johnlock gift exchange! Sapio asked for "John gettin' some head from Sherlock <3 <3 <3." Hope you like, dearest!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scotch and Sticky Notes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sapiosexy](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sapiosexy).



It's a miracle they didn't laugh throughout the entire thing. John had his feet up on Sherlock's chair, and Sherlock was giggling over yet another Scotch, his face elastic and beautiful in its careless mirth that a few drinks had finally allowed. 

"Am IIIIII…..pretty?" he says, on the verge of a laugh, but Sherlock's still smiling face burns twice in his gaze, and he has to lean his head on his hand to stop the spins and look at him proper. Sherlock comes very close, squinting up at him, and through his long lashes, it's difficult to ascertain whether he's trying to stare down the identity on his forehead, or if he's looking for motivation deep in John's eyes. 

There's a pause where their mouths are so close, and he can smell the alcohol on his breath, catch the tiny freckles in his eyes and the way two of his eyelashes stick together, and in John's mind, he sees Sherlock lying back and saying, "I dunno. I don't know who you're supposed to be…"

But instead, Sherlock's forehead drops with a hard thump to his own, and he grunts. "Sherloooock…" He's about to say, "That hurt," when Sherlock lifts up a bit, nosing John's cheek, breath hissing out in a single puff that ghosts over John's cheek and sends a heretofore uncharacteristically erotic shudder down his spine, hair on his arms rising and his own lips parting, trying to taste the air.

"John," Sherlock breathes, and there is a hand on his knee, and John is, for the first time in years, so aroused by the touch of a man, long, wide hand on his knee, sharp, angular features showing double in his gaze by alcohol, but beautiful even as he swims in and out of his vision. "I'm…"

And then he's just done it, lips sloppily pressed to that hatefully beautiful cupid's bow, completely off kilter, but he doesn't care, they're *connected,* finally, dammit, tabloids and wedding be damned. How bad they've both needed this…

Sherlock goes completely, utterly still for a moment, as though shocked into silence, and for a horrible moment, John is sure he's going to shove him away, or give a snide remark, but his hands come up to graze over his shirt, fingers splaying over his chest, hesitant as he kisses back, awkward as all hell, and John wonders if this could possibly be the first time Sherlock has ever had someone's mouth pressed to his own, the first time he's ever felt every single line of someone else's lips, if he's deducing how much water John has had over the day or the effects of alcohol on chapped lips or sexual preference, if he's even able to deduce how John has wanted this…

And then hands are fisting in his shirt and any and all questions are seared from John's mind as he's positively ravished in Sherlock's kiss, all biting teeth and too much tongue, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care at all, he will never care again, all that matters is getting a good handful of curls and turning Sherlock's head so he can ground himself, his head spinning so much, he's not sure if he's going to pass out from pleasure or be sick from the dizziness. 

Hands leave his chest, slide down over his stomach, and then over his thighs, and his pulse jumps - as does the blood in his system, which all shoots straight to one area. "Sh'lock…"

The post it with Sherlock's name is still stuck to his forehead, flapping in the breeze he's creating as he tries to jerk John's trousers off without unbuttoning them for a moment, then realizes what he's doing and hastily pops the button, pulling them down to his knees, quickly followed by his pants. John is dry mouthed and stunned, unsure of what to do - push him back or bury his hands in his hair and let him do whatever he pleases. "Sherl…Sherlock, what are you…"

"What does it look like?" he says, and his voice, for the first time in hours, is quite steady.

John looks at him a moment, and the eyes that meet his are clear and sure. He's sure, so sure. And John cannot argue with him, recognizing that Sherlock wants this as bad as he does, so he tips his head back, whispers to him, "Do it."

The next few minutes of hurried, clumsy foreplay are laughable later, but John is sure he's never felt so aroused in his life. "God, Sherlock," he groans, as the detective leaves wet, nipping kisses to his inner thighs, nosing up the crease of his groin to kiss his hip. It's by no means luxurious or top quality, but John is grinning like a loon the entire time, disbelieving, until Sherlock wraps his fingers around his cock and strokes up and down once, twice, three times, and John tips his head back on his chair with a whimper he'll be embarrassed to recall in the morning. 

He can't keep quiet, neighbors be damned, when Sherlock runs wet, saliva slicked lips over the head of his prick, lazy and frantic at the same time as he pulls the foreskin back and slips the head into his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue. John looks down through hooded eyes, can barely see except for the fluttering post-it with "SHERLOCK HOLMES" written in his drunken chicken-scratch. It flutters as Sherlock bobs his head, working his cock clumsily but successfully - the head pulses on his tongue, and John is sure he's going to die if he looks down and sees those perfect, perfect lips wrapped round him. It'll be the end of him.

Sherlock is groaning as he does so, shutting his eyes and just listening - he doesn't trust his inner ear to keep him balanced if he opens them, and the only thing he wants to focus on right now is John's cock in his mouth, deducing numbly and with varied success whether John likes it particularly wet (he doesn't have much choice on that matter), whether he likes teeth (not hard), whether his balls are sensitive (they are, to his delight, and to John's).

When his noises grow from long, slow groans, to sharp, higher-pitched, gasping cries, Sherlock presses a thumb hard to the skin just beneath his balls and John's nails dig into the arms of his chair and his hips jerk, and Sherlock rears back to keep from choking, succeeding only in allowing John to come all over his face, causing the sticky-note to drop from his forehead and to the floor with a soft, muted "flpp."

He looks up at John, pupils still blown, panting. There’s a long silence.

Sherlock seems to be mouthing words to himself.

John watches, heart pounding, smile fading into a frown of confusion and something like hurt.

Sherlock's eyes refocus, and a smile cracks across his face.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice is wary.

“Got it,” Sherlock says, grabbing the post it without even looking at it, holding the crumpled up, come-sticky post-it up to the light. “I’m you, aren’t I?”

John’s frown dissolves.

They don’t even hear Mrs. Hudson knock - they’re laughing too hard.


End file.
